


Not Anymore

by hestia_lacey



Category: Stargate Atlantis
Genre: Angst, Episode Tag, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-04-18
Updated: 2011-04-18
Packaged: 2017-10-18 08:33:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,161
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/186967
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hestia_lacey/pseuds/hestia_lacey
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>An episode tag of sorts to The Prodigal in which there are cars, and we revisit That Scene in the puddle jumper.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Not Anymore

John’s car is a write off.

Of the four wheels he started out with, only one remains. The thin rubber trim is mostly ripped away, hanging in jagged pieces, and it’s spinning sideways on its bent axis; the other three ricocheted off the corridor walls and out of sight when the car had landed hard on the floor and skidded upside down across the hallway. The hood is dented, metal deformed around the shape of the wall fixture it’d hit and the aerial is snapped, dangling forlornly by mere millimetres of stressed metal. When John thumbs the remote control hopefully, the car rattles feebly, sputters, then chokes and goes utterly still in his hands.

Yeah, completely unsalvageable. John swipes his thumb over the curve of the spoiler and allows himself a moment because he’d really liked his car, then shifts the broken parts carefully into one hand and turns to Rodney, who has only just caught him up.

Rodney is slightly flushed from his run after John and from the way they’d been laughing before John’s little stunt went not-a-little wrong. Rodney glares pointedly at John, a familiar how-are-you-not-crippled-by-that-run glare, and leans one arm against the wall as he catches his breath. When he notices the ruined car held carefully in John’s hands his glare ratchets up an notch. John winces, shrugs one coy shoulder by way of apology and shifts the parts awkwardly in his palms. Rodney rolls his eyes loudly.

When his eyes come to rest, they alight on the twisted wreckage cradled in John’s hands. Downcast, John can’t see into them at all; any sliver of blue he might glimpse is hidden under the long, distracting sweep of Rodney’s eyelashes and maybe that’s why he doesn’t pick up on it right away, the quiet way the mood has shifted, thickened. Rodney’s breathing as close to normal as he ever does and he pushes himself slowly away from the wall, licks his lips, mouth twisting like he’s about to say something. John’s expecting a blunt, factual ‘you’re an idiot,’ an exasperated ‘oh would you look at that?’ and then maybe a resigned ‘it’ll take a few days but should be able to do something with it so stop pouting,’ but he doesn’t get any of those things.

He gets something else entirely. Instead of opening, Rodney’s mouth presses into a pale, thin line wrenched down on one side into an unhappy curve. He doesn’t give John words, just a short, unhappy sigh, a frustrated, almost-angry sound John’s never heard from him before. Rodney turns his face away from John, shoulders gone tense and back curved as though through looking at the wreck he were taking the weight of something important, something huge, like they do when there are lives dependant on the quick-step of Rodney’s fingers, when whole cities hang on the thread of his thoughts. It’s so familiar to John he thinks he could trace the shapes of the posture with his eyes closed.

But it doesn’t make sense, because there’s nothing that important here: it’s just John, and it’s just a car, a plaything.

John shifts uncomfortably in Rodney’s uncharacteristic silence. He’s not used to filling the space between them with words. That’s Rodney’s thing. John brings ideas, things to do, only right now he doesn’t understand what kind of action Rodney wants him to take. He’s kinda confused: the bowed arch of Rodney’s spine is compelling and John’s palms ring, vibrating with the instinct to touch and soothe, smooth out the depressed angle. But that’s not something they do so John hangs back, uneasy and awkward like he never is around Rodney.

This strange, strangely familiar tension between them seems sudden, moves thick and dark where there had been easy laughter and light exuberance only minutes before. It’s suffocating. John takes a breath – to say what he doesn’t know, to say anything to break the silence settling too close around them – but before he can speak Rodney looks up, looks right at him and John just stops, goes absolutely still.

Because it’s clear from the odd distance in Rodney’s eyes, the shadows gathered in the corners, that Rodney is looking at the ruined mess of John’s car but seeing something else completely. From the twitch in Rodney’s fingers, the way one hand moves in a short, aborted motion toward John’s, John can guess what the something else is.

Rodney’s back in the crisis with Michael, seeing the jumper as it might have been, twisted metal hull plating and shards of glass spread across the parts of the gateroom still standing in the aftermath of a devastating explosion. He’s seeing John, twisted and broken and fragmented too, seeing himself without John, without car races and superhero trivia and mild, easy nights on the East Pier.

John knows what that’s like. Not long ago he’d been thinking the same things himself, seeing Rodney’s body but not Rodney, and terrified of what it would be like to be without him. John tries not to think about that too much. It gets hard to breathe when he does.

It’s getting harder to breathe now, too, with the weight of Rodney’s eyes on him; Rodney’s looking at John just like he did in the jumper, all sorrow-wide blue, bright and hurting.

John remembers how it was, remembers what he nearly did, and feels himself flush under the scrutiny, at the memory of the almost-moment they’d shared. Rodney hasn’t shifted his gaze at all.

Without looking away, Rodney reaches out and carefully takes the mangled car out of John’s hands. John lets him, heart beating too fast for anything else. Slowly, Rodney turns and places the pieces on the floor at John’s feet.

When he straightens, he flicks his eyes over John’s face, swallows, and offers his hand.

John feels like he’s drowning, like he’s a handshake away from something life-changing all over again.

There’s confusion etched into Rodney’s brow, like he doesn’t quite understand what he’s doing. Nonetheless, his hand is steady between them, palm open. John doesn’t remember a time when Rodney’s hands have shook, not when it mattered.

John has trained hands too, but he doesn’t know if his own is shaking or not when he reaches out, slow and shy, slips his palm into Rodney’s, curls their fingers together.

The heat and pressure and texture are not new to John; he’s had Rodney’s hand in his before, pulling him up, dragging him out of the way, but he’s never reached out to him so deliberately, with such intent and the sensation of skin on skin settles heavily into John’s chest, makes him breathless, because this is easily the most intimate thing they’ve ever done.

John can feel Rodney’s pulse: his fingers, longer than Rodney’s, have come to rest lightly on the thin, soft skin on the inside of Rodney’s wrist. When Rodney’s heart beats, the skin presses brief, feather-light kisses to the pad of John’s index finger. The motion is distorted, bigger than John thinks it should be.

Rodney’s brow is smooth now, eyes clear where they stare at their clasped hands, like the pattern of their fingers had fit into a puzzle, a missing piece. After a long moment, Rodney blinks, and John watches his mouth form a startled ‘huh.’

Then Rodney’s hand tenses and with a sharp yank he pulls John forward a step; John’s pressed close to Rodney, close enough that their chests brush, a whisper of contact at each inhale. John swallows wetly, over-loud between them. Rodney looks up at him at the sound, catches John’s eyes with his own.

Rodney’s eyes are sparking blue with a light like discovery. They slide down to John’s mouth and rest there; John instinctively licks his lower lip, breath hitching when Rodney leans in just a little, just enough that John knows what comes next.

This is what almost happened in the jumper, what they would have done had the crackle of the radio not ripped into the fragile thing between them. John would have taken Rodney’s hand, pulled the other man down (or pushed himself up, he doesn’t know) and then taken his mouth, would have kissed him with absolutely everything, let Rodney in like he wants, given himself over.

But it’s not the same now. John isn’t about to die, neither is Rodney, and however much John wants this, it’s not right.

Because Rodney wants Keller, and John honestly thinks he might get her. Rodney would kiss John because he’s figured John out and because he can never resist a discovery, and because he really does like John, but it wouldn’t be right and it wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

So John takes a deep, steadying breath and takes a step back, putting barely a foot of space between them. It feels like more.

Rodney makes a small, confused sound and looks up at John, brow furrowed, lips already forming John’s name. It’s important that John does something before Rodney starts talking, so without thinking too much about it John takes Rodney’s hand between his and opens it, baring Rodney’s palm. Rodney freezes.

John has to swallow again, take another breath. Then, meeting Rodney’s uncertain gaze, John brings Rodney’s hand to his lips and presses a dry kiss to the damp skin there. His mouth lingers, butterfly touches to Rodney’s lifeline.

It’s chaste, practically Victorian, but heat wells up between them anyway, molten warmth John wants to step into, submerge himself in. He looks at Rodney one last time, meets those eyes again, and before he gives in to the currents swirling around them, John drops his gaze and folds Rodney’s fingers around the kiss cupped in his hand.

John turns away then, pivoting quickly on his heel like speed might make the motion hurt less. Down the corridor, he thinks, don’t turn around.

Only, it doesn’t quite work out like he wants.

Because Rodney’s hands are on his shoulders, palms closing tight over the joint before John even takes his first step, spinning him around, pushing him back hard against the wall and pinning him there with strength John sometimes forgets Rodney has.

“Oh, I don’t think so,” he says, “Not this time, John.”

His voice is low and rough and utterly non-negotiable. It catches on John’s name, an almost angry rasp that makes something deep in John unwind. In response to the heat unravelling dangerously in his stomach, John presses up into Rodney’s hands, testing his grip. Rodney only pushes back harder, fingertips digging deep into John’s collarbones.

“Rodney - ” John rasps. It was supposed to be a warning, or maybe a threat, but it’s too desperate to be either of those things.

“No,” Rodney hisses, body pressing further into John’s in emphasis. “No. I know that look, okay? I know what it means.”

“What – I don’t know what - ” John’s hands come up to Rodney’s waist as he struggles to find the words he’s looking for. He means to push against Rodney’s body, but ends up fitting his palms to the curves and muscles, pulling Rodney in.

“That look, John. The one you get when you think blowing yourself up is the only way out.” Rodney has him crowded back flush against the corridor wall. His hands move up the slope of John’s neck as he speaks, fit to the base of John’s skull. One leg has pressed between John’s knees, pressed up. John can feel the tension vibrating through the other man and pushes against it. It feels good, good enough that he arches into the pressure of Rodney’s thigh, making both of them stutter a breath.

He has no idea what any of it means. It’s too much all at once.

Rodney leans forward, uses his grip in John’s hair to bring their foreheads together.

“You look at me like that sometimes,” Rodney says, fingers tightening their hold, “In the jumper, and when I was… with the parasite…” Rodney tilts John’s head back, bares the column of his throat, whispers into the hollow at its base:

“You look at me like I’m, like I’m killing you.”

Rodney’s grip in his hair is punishing now, but John doesn’t want him to let go.

“But you never – you don’t do anything about it. You just, you let me,” Rodney chokes out, then presses his lips to the skin below John’s ear.

Yes, John thinks, arching into the sensation of Rodney’s skin where it touches his.

“Don’t, John,” Rodney says, gentling his grip and sliding his hands down to cup John’s face, “you don’t have to do that.” The words whisper over John’s parted lips and then Rodney’s kissing him, a slow, slick press of mouths that deepens, softens, slides imperceptibly into something that makes John grasp urgently at Rodney’s hips, his hands, everything.

When they break apart, John is reeling.

Rodney leans back to look John in the eye.

“You don’t have to do that,” he says again.

This time, John understands.


End file.
